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SideiPdijs and Backipard 



Musa Dtrnn 



H^axahachie, Texas 






Enterprise Publishing Compami 



UPaxhachie. Texas 



2 H S M,^ 




rtlrs. Musa Dunn 

KPaxahacliie, Texas 



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You know the kind 

Of an Irish mind — 

Merry heart, happy, head — 

Of which 'tis said 

It "works sideways and b'ackward." 



Contents 



Page 

Nothing but Books 5 

Poesy Nipped in the Bud 9 

Sam Jones vs. Satan 12 

Prosaic and Poetical 14 

Picnics 16 

A Little of Everything and Not Much 

of Anything 19 

Fame Passed Me by 22 

A Sheaf of Dreams 2 6 

Under the mistletoe 29 



Mothing but Books ' 

When I was a few years younger than I 
am now my besetting sin was a love of books. 
I am much afflicted in that way yet, never hav- 
ing recovered from the first attack. But pre- 
vious to my inoculation, and quite early in my 
career, my erratic course gave my mother some 
very serious apprehensions, and as she looked 
with an eye of grave disapproval on my evident 
inclination to make a Thomas-boy of myself, 
she called me into her presence one day and 
gave it as her most mournful opinion that I 
didn't know a book from a hole in the ground, 
was good for nothing under the sun but to 
climb trees, wade water, and throw rocks at 
the boys, and sorely grieved and moved was 
she that a child of hers should grow up in such 
complete and utter idiocy. I was somewhat 
startled at the prospect myself, and when I had 
perforce given her lecture all the respectful at- 
tention it demanded, I finished extracting the 
cockleburs from my flaxen locks, stuck my 
sweet-gum on the round of a chair, retired to 
the barn loft and laid myself out for some very 
calm and serious consideration. It was all 
true, just as she said ; I was good for nothing 
whatever, that I could think of. I didn't know 
how to sew, didn't want to learn, I couldn't 
knit, wouldn't cook, ran wild in the woods, 
whistled from morning to night, loved horses 
and dogs, wasn't afraid of ghosts, had warts 
on my hands, freckles on my nose, sun-burn on 
my hair, stone bruises on my heels, and there 
wasn't a boy in all that neighborhood for miles 
and miles that I hadn't crossed tooth and toe- 
nail with, and come out more or less victorious. 
As the enumeration grew larger I greAv small- 
er, in my own estimation ; I had a birds-eye 
view of the situation ; I realized my lost and 
undone condition, and by the time I had wash- 
ed my complexion unusually clean with a few 

— Page Five 



briney tears, mopping up the moisture with the 
sleeve of a soiled apron, I resolved to pause in 
my wicked career, alter my course, begin again, 
turn over a new leaf, and that leaf should be 
in any book my mother selected. Hastily, lest 
I get out of the notion and read not at all, 
she placed in my hands "Beulah," and with 
a sigh for the green fields, the flowery dells, 
the shadowy woods, the dimpling streams 
wiiere the wild rose leaves whirled softly 
around in a little eddy under the mossy bank, 
I bent my brov/s over the book and went at 
it with the determination to read if it killed 
me. I survived wonderfully however, and as 
my imagination took quick hold upon the pic- 
tured scenes, I was soon well acquainted with 
]>eulah, her baby sister, and the other little 
idiots. With breathless interest I followed 
their fortunes and misfortunes, heart swelling 
over the lines cast to them in unpleasant places, 
and when at last Beulah ran away from the 
poor house where she had been placed, and 
found the little sister she loved dead as a door 
nail in a small flov\^er wreathed casket, my 
emotions burst bounds, the rivers of woe over- 
flowed, I prostrated my stricken form in the 
dust and refused to be comforted. In vain my 
iiiother explained, coaxed, plead, threatened, 
reasoned, the storm continued with unabated 
force until she took the book out of sight, lock- 
ed it away be3^ond reach, and many and many 
a long year passed over my devoted head 
before I found Beulah again, and learned that 
she lived on in spite of her broken heart, grew 
up to womanhood, fell in love as though no- 
thing had happened, and got married just as 
any other ordinary individual Avould have done. 
But that was the beginning of a new life to me 
— the small wedge that opened up a wonderful 
world of dreams — and I ran wild sure enough 
after that, but I never ran unaccompanied by 
a book. Nobody said me nay, nobody gave 
any particular attention to me, I was left to 
follow the bent of my own sweet will, and 
bent it was too, for I read everything in sight, 
from a ragged pamphlet of Shakespeare's plays, 
on up to an elegantly bound copy of "One Eyed 

Page Six — 



Dick, the Scout", I made my throne on a 
mossy log in tlie densest part of the woods, 
and there I recited poetry to the buttcrfHes, 
legends to the birds, travels to the bees, fairy 
tales to the flowers, history to the horse, 
science to the dogs, fact, fancy, and fun ran 
riot in my head, rainbow tangles of romance in 
the brain, and from such a varied, mixed and 
miscellaneous mass of literature, naturally and 
as a matter of course, I gathered a small smat- 
tering of many things, and an absolute knowl- 
edge of nothing. And so today when the world 
discusses books I am silent, in the presence of 
a learned essay I am speechless ; the temerity 
of a criticism fills me with wonder and aston- 
ishment; the sight of a review brings me a 
sense of utter helplessness, and when on 
literary occasions some well m.eaning, bu*: 
mistaken person requests me to give a talk on 
books, I fain would hold my peace, and say 
nothing whatever, because nothing whatever is 
exactly what I have to say, and peace seems 
about the only thing tangible to hold on to. 
Not but what my range of reading is wide, 
deep and devious; I've wandered through the 
unabridged dictionary often, up and down the 
crooked trail of the Chinese alphabet many 
times, labored patiently with the rare, and not 
very clear, volumes of antiquity, and if I should 
be transplanted to Mars I am sure I would 
attempt a translation of their language, and 
investigate their literature also. Why, I've 
even tackled Shakespeare now and then, when 
I had nothing better to do, but I never could 
make out to save my life, whether he wrote 
Bacon, or Bacon wrote him. Likewise have I 
waded through Scott's productions, introduced 
myself to Thackery's creations, hung over Ad- 
dison's works, dipped into Dryden's thoughts, 
stumbled along Hugo's heights, followed By- 
ron's flights, pondered over Plato's philosophy, 
staggered after Spencer, Spinoza, Schopenaur, 
and the rest of them, and 'pon my word, I stav 
awake yet sometimes at night trying to catch 
on to what they are all driving at. But when 
the occasion offers, the demand is made, and 
I attempt to elaborate these things, to review 

— Pase Seven 



a finished thought, to oii&r a treatise on ideas 
so large with ideas so small, a new edition, so 
to speak, of grand truths already told in lan- 
guage a mile and a half beyond my compre- 
hensions, — the presumption gives me pause, 
and I can but take refuge in a stony calm, 
assume an air of haughty reserve, plead a 
headache, a toothache, an ulcerated sore throat, 
a stroke of paralysis, anything to avoid giving 
voice to the waste places of my brain, and all 
the time deep down in my soul I am longing 
inexpressibly, if vainly and hopelessly, for the 
safe and sane precincts of a deaf and dumb 
asylum. 



Page EisM- 



Poetrij Hipped in tKe Bud 

My very worst friend cannot accuse me 
of being a literary light of any pre-eminence. 
I have a mournful forboding that my name 
will fade away with the present generation. 
I am almost certain that I will drop down into 
my grave "unwept, unhonored and unsung." 
But there was a time in my sweet young life 
when no such idea ever penetrated the place 
where my brain ought to have been, and I 
was as happy as a wild sunflower in the firm 
belief that the earth, and the fullness thereof, 
were cut out and put together for my own 
especial benefit. 

I lived in Austin, and I wrote a poem ! It 
was not about the spring, the flowers, the 
singing birds, the skipping lambs, the dead 
ashes of hope, or anything in particular that 
I remember, but in my estimation it was an 
exceedingly rare gem, even in lines, smooth in 
measure, lovely in rhymes, and I often retired 
to a congratulatory post behind the door to pat 
my head, and tell myself then — as I tell myself 
now — Shakespeare in all his glory never array- 
ed one of his fancies like unto that. The day 
came however when I was not satisfied with 
my own admiration, I wanted the world to do 
that way too, and I resolved to place this first 
fruit of a powerful young intellect in the 
columes of the leading paper published in the 
capital city. Never the shadow of a doubt 
crossed the intention, hope furnished the wings 
for my mission, I stepped along the streets as 
if I owned them, I walked over the earth as 
if I made it, I looked at the faces I met as if 
I pitied them, but by and by as I neared my 
destination my assurance began to weaken, my 
confidence began to waver, some lumps got 
into my throat which I could not swallow, and 
when I had reached the bottom drop of my 
courage, ascended the long stairway, and made 

Page Nine 



my feeble debut in a large room where ten 
thousand type setters were working at ten 
thousand tables, I would willingly, gladly, 
thankfully let go all hold, and tumbled out of 
the situation faster than I tumbled in, only 
twice ten thousand eyes were turned upon my 
shrinking individuality, and the gentleman 
nearest me stepped forward and politely asked 
what he could do for me. La, at the things 
he might have done for me ! Knocked me 
down the stairs, called the police, given me rat 
poison — anything but stand there and wait for 
me to speak, for straightway I forgot all I 
knew, forgot what I meant to say, forgot my 
name, my nationality, the date of my birth, 
longed for the date of my death, and in a voice 
he had to take a microscope to hear I told 
him I wanted a reward offered, an advertise- 
ment inserted, or a poem printed — I didn't care 
much which if he didn't. I think the man 
smiled — I am not prepared to state accurately, 
but I think he did, and winked maybe at the 
other fools in the room, but he summoned a 
boy, the hatefullest looking boy I ever saw in 
my life, and told him to "conduct the lady to 
the editor's private office down the street !" If 
there was anything on earth I didn't want to 
see by this time it was the editor's private 
office down the street. I would rather have 
been ushered into the lunatic asylum. But I 
went, slowly and reluctantly 'tis true, but I 
went, for I couldn't do otherwise. Bitterly I 
regretted the step I had taken, the steps I was 
taking; anxiously I looked about for some 
means of escape, vainly I essayed to dodge 
down an alley, earnestly I sought to compass 
the boy's destruction — he paused not, neither 
relaxed his vigilance until he landed me in the 
presence of the stately white haired editor, 
whereupon I immediately evidenced a strong 
liking for that boy's society and would gladly 
have followed him to the end of the world but 
that he slammed the door on my classic nose, 
and left me to face my fate alone. The poem 
was in my pocket — the poem stayed in my 
pocket. I sat sullenly on the edge of the chair, 
and sickened with strange disgust every time 

Page Ten — 



I thought of even lines and musical rhymes. 
The editor was all that was kind and courteous 
and pleasant, but he never succeeded in melt- 
ing the light in my eyes, in softening the re- 
ticence of my noble brows, in scattering the 
haughtiness of my mood, or in any way win- 
ning the childlike confidence of my normal 
state, further than that I told him I had called 
in the interest of a friend long since dead, who 
wanted him to print her last will and testa- 
ment long since lost, and then I made my exit. 
I fled, I flew, I hit the ground only in high 
places, skimmed the surface of the home 
stretch, fell in the window, crawled far back 
under the bed, and had my bread and water 
brought to me for many days before I regained 
sufficient assurance to venture out in the glar- 
ing light of the world again. The cremation of 
the poem took place as soon as I was able to 
attend to the obsequies. 



—Page Eleven 



Sam Jones us. Satan 

I was sitting on the lower step of the front 
porch one morning busily reading the Dutch 
almanac sent by an admiring friend, one sandal 
slipped off and my toes buried surreptitiously 
in the cool green grass, deaf for once to the 
world around, to the sounds of life, to the bird 
songs overhead, to the chirp of the cricket near 
the fence, to the young hen going into hysterics 
over a newly laid egg, when some one who 
thinks a very great deal more of me than I 
do of him came along the walk, stopped at 
the gate, threw a few "sheep's eyes" over at 
me and said "suppose you and I go up to Dallas 
tomorrow and hear Sam Jones preach." 'Twas 
the first chance I'd had and I didn't want to 
appear too eager, so I diligently spelled out a 
few words m.ore, turned another leaf, then 
closed the book, thrust my toes back into place, 
arose to my dignified feet, made the gentleman 
a sweeping bow and ansAvered. "with the great- 
est pleasure in life my dear sir." And 
that's how I came to find myself in the city 
on the never navigated river, in an immense 
building of brick and saw-dust, jammed in a 
crowd of ten thousand "lost and ruined souls," 
from the four quarters of the state — the "old 
bald headed rips" on the right, the red nosed 
fraternity on. the left, the "flop eared hounds" 
all around, the self sufficient infidels, the sleepy 
church members, the ball room devotees, the 
fashionable set, the prodigal son, the unprodi- 
gal sire, the Sunday sinner, the week day trans- 
gressor, the sheep, the goats all mixed up 
together so that I didn't know myself from the 
worst or best in the lot, and as I had always 
declared I didn't believe in the rough and ready 
Gospel Sam Jones slung out from the pulpit 
I was quite ready to turn up my Waxahachie 
nose at everything he said, but when he looked 
me straight in the eyes and exclaimed, "you're 

Page Twelve — 



a nice old thing, sis, but you've got no mind," 
I couldn't do a thing but prove the assertion 
by making faces at him with all the mouth I 
had. He seemed to enjoy the situation too, and 
smiled so sweetly that I lost myself in watch- 
ing the play of the sallow face, the curves of 
the expressive mouth, looking unutterable 
things into eyes that looked them all back at 
me again, and when he took up his "mother's 
Bible," rolled up his sleeves and plunged into 
business with an appropriate text I forgot to 
shut my mouth for an Iiour, let my breath take 
care of itself, the past the present the future 
glowed in living light, the world the flesh and 
the other fellow rushed by in panoramic view, 
my soul dwindled into a thing too small to 
save, and when he took his seat again and the 
choir burst into the declaration that "Old time 
religion was good enough for them," I relaxed 
my toes, closed my lips with a salty sigh, pick- 
ed my handkerchief up from the dust, mopped 
the last remnant of powder from my face, 
looked around for the "mourner's bench," and 
felt it was ten thousand times too good for me. 
Then the usual propositions came to the front 
— those who were Christians, those who 
weren't, those who wanted to be, those who 
didn't, those who couldn't, to stand on their 
feet or heads or hands (I've forgotten now 
which), and I acceeded to them all, never miss- 
ed one, stood up sat down meandered around, 
shook hands with the crowd, great drops of 
emotion be-dewed my brow, my hat stuck on 
one side, but I faltered not, neither did I faint, 
for I wanted to feel I was performing my re- 
ligious duty and doing whatever little old 
soul-searching Sam Jones told me to, and if 
that days meeting wasn't a great affair, a stu- 
pendous occasion and a howling success no- 
body in sound of his voice can put the blame 
on the lady who had fallen from grace, climbed 
back again, and made up her mind to become 
an evangelist ?nd go forth to sa>'^ the world. 



— Page Tliirteen 



Prosaic and Poetical 

Every time I clean house I am consumed 
with a great and overwhehning desire to take 
out a big fire insurance policy and become 
chief mourner at an immense conflagration. I 
couldn't tell to save my life v^^here all the 
books, papers and magazines come from, and 
as for the dust — if I could just get it in shape 
and put a barbed wire fence around it, I'd 
make an independent fortune selling it out for 
black land farms. I am a very sweet tempered 
individual (that is somebody told me I was 
once, a hundred years ago, just after I made a 
profession of religion I didn't have), but when 
I've got to tie my head up in a rag, plug both 
nostrils with cotton, and swallow an acre of the 
real estate that has accumulated in my house 
during the summer, my large and interesting 
family had better flee to the woods and stay 
there until the atmosphere clears a little. 
What wonder? I've got blisters on my hands 
as big as pancakes, and all the soothing salve 
thereupon up to date has been the unfeeling 
remark: "if you'd get a move on you and use 
the broom oftener your hands would be 
tougher." I never wanted to use the broom 
as bad in my life as I did right then, but I 
• 'i 'n'*- wM.t to sweep with it thougii — nothing! 
I use buttermilk applications every time I think 
of it, and wear old kid gloves in my dreams 
just for the sole purpose of keeping my hands 
white and soft and squeezeable — though if any- 
body in reach has ever discovered they were so 
they never let on to me about it. Some folks 
are so unappreciative, and wouldn't know a 
soft white hand from a cat's paw — there are 
times when I hate them. But as a general 
thing, and under more pleasant circumstances, 
it is exactly the other way with me for I've 
been in love with something or somebody ever 
since I can remember. Life without love isn't 

Page Fourteen — 



worth living at all — I've never tried it and 
never intend to. I've traveled around a great 
deal in this big and beautiful vrorld. I'd travel 
a lot more than I do if I had a newspaper pass, 
were a stock holder in the interurban, or even 
had the misfortune to own a Ford car, but I've 
nver become so lost to human feeling that I 
couldn't fall in love if anybody wanted me to. 
I've been to Dallas several times, to Austin 
twice, started to the country club once and had 
to turn back, to a thousand picnics on the 
creek, even to more political speakings than 
I wanted to attend, and I never failed to find 
from one to a million people in such places 
who were so kind and good and altogether 
lovely that I couldn't keep from falling in love 
with them to save my life. If you've never 
tried it you don't know how really and truly 
nice it is to be in love. It will brighten your 
life, lighten your toil, sweeten your dreams, 
deepen your soul, quicken your pulse, warm 
your blood, keep you awake all night, and give 
you something to think about from sun up to 
sun down and from sun down back to sun up 
again. Go forth and fall in love early and 
often, truly and deeply, hopefully and happily, 
and while you are about it don't forget my 
i>hare. 



-Page Fiftten 



Picnics 

When I become too old and disgruntled 
to enjoy myself to death at a picnic it behooves 
some loving friend to give me a small sugar- 
coated dose of rat poison, and let me down — or 
up — g'ently to my next stage of existence. If 
you've never tried it, you don't know how 
much fun and frolic there is in an average 
picnic, nor how much pure and unadulterated 
joy and relief you'll feel when the day is done 
and the fun all over. 

There be many and various kinds of pic- 
nics, too — barbecues, fish fries, oyster roasts, 
breakfast parties. Mother Hubbard affairs, 
camp meeting revivals, Chautauqua lectures 
and political speakings, and not one, so far as 
my observation and experience go, is cut out 
and put together for meditation and prayer. 
Far from it; for, if you stop to meditate and 
pray, you are gone — and not to a picnic, either. 
The most hilarious, however, are the political 
speakings and the most varied and doubtful are 
the Mother Hubbard outings. The former open 
with prayer, proceed with maledictions, and 
wind up with fist fights, swelled noses and 
black eyes. The latter open with no form 
whatever, proceed with still less and end in 
whatever way comes handy. 

I went to a Mother Hubbard picnic once, 
just once — strickly a woman's picnic — and I 
never have been able to make up my mind 
about the fun and frolic of it. We drove out 
six miles from town to a shady grove and a 
spring big enough to hold a dozen water- 
melons. There we ran races, jumped sticks, 
played leap frog, climbed trees, fell in the 
creek, chased butterflies, picked ticks, and all 
with one accord agreed not even to think of 
a man the whole day long. It was a long day, 
too, the longest I ever spent in my life. I don't 
know whether the others stuck to the agree- 

Page Sixteen — 



ment or not, but the compact was broken by 
common consent when we came to harness the 
horses to drive home in the evening. We had 
staked them out to graze, but the majority 
had souglit fresher fields, taking the stakes 
with them. There were a great many more 
straps and strings, buckles and things, than we 
had any need for; but we managed to get them 
looped and twisted and knotted about the 
horses pretty well until we came to one sturdy 
old beast who held his head so high we couldn't 
get the bit in his mouth with a forty foot pole. 
In vain we begged and plead, and threatened 
and reasoned, and patted and petted, and 
whistled and "whoa-ed !'' He "whoa-ed" all 
right enough — in fact, he wasn't doing any- 
thing but "whoaing;" but he did it with a look 
of lofty contempt, and absolutely refused to 
come down and take the bit. We tried him 
with shelled oats and cake and pie and bread, 
held in the lap of a skirt; he lowered his head 
long enough to sample the lot, making his 
selections include the skirt, but he returned to 
the upper strata of atmosphere to masticate 
them. We exhausted the delicacies, likewise 
our patience. Then we got one end of a rope 
tied about his lengthy old neck, fastened the 
other end securely to the under side of a wheel, 
and when the entire crowd piled into the sur- 
rey to hold it down one of us mounted the 
dash board in front, wound a wisp of hay 
around the bit and insinuatingly offered him 
that. He nibbled the hay off and declined to 
swallow the bit, but we swung on to his nose 
and ears and bangs, sawed the bit along his 
teeth, his neck stretched out like a rubber 
string, and suddenly the carriage heaved up on 
end, piercing screams rent the air and for a 
few awful seconds the horse, the harness, the 
cushions, the baskets, the mixed pickles, and 
the women were tangled up in such wild 
and inextricable confusion that the wayfarer, 
though a sage, could not have told one from 
another. I don't know how we ever did pull 
ourselves out and get apart again; but when 
we did we found the horse was in a comatose 
state of some kind up among the trees, and 

— Pase Seventeen 



we decided that his neck was dislocated, his 
jaws locked, or something. , 

While the majority of us sat down and 
wept bitterly, two others walked a mile and 
a half across a field of black dirt and got a 
man to come and diagnose the case. When 
he came we all swarmed around in admiration 
and awe to see what he would do ; but he 
wasn't five minutes getting all those things 
into shape and that old horse took the bit like 
it had been a lump of sugar. 

We gathered the remains of our Mother 
Hubbards about us and invited the man to see 
us safely home, but he declined the honor and 
eaid he thought we'd get along all right if we'd 
just give the horse his head and let him go. 
As if we hadn't been giving him his head and 
letting him go for hours ! 



Page Eighteen — 



A Little of Euerij thing 

All my life, more or less, when I was not 
askmg questions myself I have had an over- 
powering desire to investigate those other 
people were asking. And you needn't tell me 

"Opportunity knocks at the door but once" 

such things are everlastingly bombarding at 
i^ine — but in an hour when I thought not and 
didn't very much want to think, a gentleman 
of an inquiring turn of mind asked me softly 
and gently, "Can we ever really love but 
once?" I was rather startled at first, blushed 
divinely all over my neck and nose, felt the 
fluttering of my heart in my throat, but when 
I remembered he was a married man, and 
didn't amount to much anyway, of course I 
understood there could not be anything per- 
sonal in the question, and so I calmed my 
emotions, subdued my blushes, quieted the 
heart throbs, collected my scattered wits, 
mounted the witness stand, and proceeded to 
"tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
but the truth" about the delicate subject— as 
far as I knew. Speaking from a highly varied 
experience, a keen and alarmingly lengthy ob- 
servatictn, I am bound to say we really can love 
not once only, or twice merely, but three, four, 
or a dozen times if need be, as early, as often, 
as much, as deeply, as fervently as the occasion 
permits, or the nature of the case demands. 
Beginning at an early age I fell in love ; I stay- 
ed there I think a week, maybe longer, and 
no sooner had I sailed out of the situation than 
I turned square about, without loss of time, 
and tumbled in again deeper than ever, and 
today I live to say I have continued so to do 
up to the present age, and not a weeks rest 
have I had, or do I want either. I wouldn't 
know myself at all out of love, I'd go around 
worshipping at the shrine of old father Time 
if I couldn't do any better (but I can do a little 

— Page Nineteen 



better), and when I turn my back on the rich- 
ness, the fulhiess, the exquisite tenderness of 
the grand passion and retire on the thought of 
the "lias been," you may know I am out of the 
business altogether and utterly disabled for 
any further feeling in that direction. 

And there is another question which has 
been propounded to me often : "Why does God 
permit sin in the world?" As if I knew, or 
would presume to try to know the reasons God 
has for doing anything! What concerns me 
more is why people go around asking questions 
they cannot answer themselves, and know no- 
body else can, and what concerns me most of 
all is why we ourselves permit sin in the heart? 
When Bell made the telephone and set men 
and women (mostl)^ women) to running it, you 
v/ouldn't expect him to monkey about taking 
kinks out of the lines, "shooing" birds off the 
wires, picking gnats and dust out of the tubes, 
and keeping fools from the sounding boards, 
v.'ould you? And so when God made the world 
'He leased it to man to operate, and if they sow 
tares, cultivate sin, cherish iniquity, and play 
the mischief generally, God isn't going to in- 
terfere with their personal liberty to any 
serious extent. But when the end comes, the 
harvest is past, the returns all in, the final ac- 
count taken, the papers filed and the case call- 
ed to court there'll be no appeal, no new trial 
granted, no suspended sentence, and some of 
us are going to get hurt and have the cost to 
pay, and may the Lord have mercy on our 
souls ! 

And here's another for idle minds to ques- 
tion and simple souls to answer — if thev can — 
"How may we secure happiness?" By the 
way, and arising to a question of personal priv- 
ilege, what is happiness anyhow? Does it not 
just as well come under the Bible definition 
of faith — "the substance of things hoped for 
the evidence of things not seen?" I notice Mr. 
Webster defines happiness as "felicity, blessed- 
ness, bliss, joyful satisfaction" and so on, but 
with all due deference to Mr. Webster, and 
his great amount of information on a variety 
of subjects, if I were going to make a diction- 
Page Twenty — 



ary I'd say Happiness is like Love or Religion 
— when you get so you can explain it then you 
haven't got it, and when you've got it then you 
can't explain it to save your life. A grave and 
dignified friend of mine to whom I appealed 
for light on the subjects, and who doesn't know 
half as much about them as I do, said I never 
looked so well as when I was attending to my 
own business, and as I am at all times and in 
all ways desirious of looking well I abandoned 
the track of information, retired on my income, 
and am glad and thankful beyond measure that 
a v/ant of native wisdom and erudite knowl- 
edge is not going to keep me out of Heaven, 
for if I ever get there I expect to know every- 
thing without asking questions — though I con- 
fess to a pious hope that I will be allowed to 
go on asking questions. 



— Page Twenty-one 



Fanae Passsd Me 5ij 

In all my rather varied career nobody at 
all has ever called me beautiful — I've often 
wondered why — and on this hot summer day 
when I was trying to wash the outside of 
windows on the south porch my most ardent 
admirer could not have pronounced me even 
pretty. My curly top knot was tied up with 
a string, the cat had left a long meandering 
scratch across the left side of my countenance, 
the big kitchen apron made an elegant trail 
for the back of my attire, for the cow had 
tackled the previous week's wash and riddled 
the rear of my skirt into doll rags. First she 
ripped all the gathers off of the belt, then ran 
her horns north for about ten feet, thence south 
east at an angle of forty-five degrees, thence 
due west back to the point of beginning, and 
when clothed in the remnants and mounted on 
the step ladder with the broom, a bar of soap, 
a pail of suds, a box of "bon ami," a lot of 
paper, a bushel of rags, and no very great in- 
clination to care whether the windows were 
polished or not, I could not have presented a 
very attractive appearance. I was getting 
along pretty well however when the gate latch 
clicked, the cat ran hastily off the porch, the 
chickens flew cackling under the house, and I 
crawfished backward down the ladder just in 
time to face a dapper looking man who half 
did, and half didn't, take off his hat, eyed me 
askance and inquired in a tone strangely mixed 
with doubt : 

"Are you the lady of the house?" 

I mopped the moisture off my lovely face 
and said, "Do I look like her?" 

"Well," he stammered, "you know she is 
a stranger to me, and really I can't say — " 

"Well, really I can," I interrupted, "and 
to all intents and purposes she stands before 
you — what wilt thou?" 

Page Twenty-two — 



To all intents and purposes he wilted, took 
off his hat, hung it on the step ladder, sat 
down on the pansy box, cleared up his throat 
and said he was representing one of the largest 
and most popular publishing houses in the 
world, was using a bit of his valuable time in 
collecting data for an elegant history of our 
town and county, and some of the most wealthy 
and accomplished citizens had sent him to in- 
terview me for the purpose of ascertaining 
facts that would immortalize my name and 
fame, and hand my honor and glory down to 
all future generations to come. I nearly faint- 
ed with emotions of the hour, a glow of pride 
deepened the red of my neck and nose, I sub- 
sided gracefully on the upturned pail of suds, 
slyly pushed the bar of soap out of sight Avith 
my foot, slipped the dirty rag in the pocket of 
my apron, gave him a fine profile of my face 
(with the scratch on the off side), and after 
assuring me he was neither going to take my 
picture or pull my tooth, he produced pencil 
and note book and began : 

"What is your name and address?" 

I had supposed he knew but I told him. 
and then he continued : 

"The name of your native state?" 

"Tennessee." 

"The date of your birth?" 

"I don't remember." 

"Where were you educated?" 

"Nowhere in particular." 

"What is your height?" 

"Four feet ten." 

"What is your weight?" 

"A hundred and twenty-five in winter and 
slightly more than that in summer." 

"What is the color of your eyes?" 

"Green." 

"The color of your hair?" 

"Red." 

"Are you married, and if not, do you want 
to marry?" 

"Yes sir." 

"What is your daily avocation?" 

"Nothing." 

"Who is your favorite poet?" 

— ^Page Twenty-three 



"Mother Goose." 

"The name of your choice in fiction?" 

"One Eyed Dick, the Scout." 

"What is your pet abomination?" 

"Agents." 

"What is your prevailing ambition ?" 

"To be called beautiful." 

"Have you ever written anything, and if 
so when, where and how in the name of com- 
mon sense was it published?" 

"I don't know, but I think so." 

As he closed his book with a snap, arose 
from the pansy box, put on his hat, and shoved 
the pencil behind his ear, he said: 

"Now the history will be a most costly and 
elegant affair altogether, no expense spared, 
and as we are going to issue only a limited 
number to a favored few I have your name 
down as a subscriber — delivered next month — 
twenty dollars per copy." 

And as he went out of the gate I leaned 
heavily on the handle of the broom and called 
him in a feeble voice — "can you give me an 
after idea of where I'll get the mone)^?" He 
didn't answer, maybe didn't hear. I sat down 
again on the bar of soap, wiggled my toe me- 
chaically in and out of the hole in my slipper, 
picked the rough edges off the scar on the off 
side of my face, until the twelve o'clock 
whistle sounded from the mill below the 
spring, was echoed from the hill beyond, re- 
peated by the ice factory in town, caught up 
by the electric light house near by, and my 
loving family flocked home to the dinner that 
wasn't prepared, and said I had a sun stroke, 
or something, and they "told me so" when I 
made up my mind to polish those windows. I 
hadn't made it up, or cared to make it up, and 
the windows were not polished. All the same 
the days and weeks went sailing by as usual, 
the months have healed the crimson scratch on 
my countenance, the history of our town and 
county , has long since made its debut before 
an admiring world, but they forgot to deliver 
my copy (I wasn't at home anyway), and when 
I saw an elegantly bound, handsomely printed 
edition over at Ann's (she takes everything 

Page Twenty-four — 



the agents bring) I was so excited I could 
scarcely breathe, skipped through the pages 
like mad, ran up and down the index with a 
finger that trembled like a leaf, mine eyes al- 
most popped out of my head, but in all the 
length and breadth, height and depth, from be- 
ginning to end not a single solitary hint was 
given of my name and fame. I was greatly 
surprised, and much and most awfully disap- 
pointed. 



> 



— Page Twenty-five 



A Sheaf of Dreams 

Thanksgiving Day this year was a day for 
dreaming and not for fasting, and I would 
so much rather dream than feast anytime. 
People who like to feast never take much in- 
terest in me on festive occasions, for I have al- 
ways been possessed of a great desire to locate 
that land said to be flowing with milk and 
honey. I should not be very particular about 
the honey either, if only I procured the milk, 
gallons of it, pure, sweet and rich, with the 
cream still on it. 

Goethe says we "ought always to acquaint 
ourselves with the beautiful," but I've never 
yet had the chance to get even an introduc- 
tion to that kind of thing in a kitchen. If I 
\Yere an architect I'd cut all kitchens out of the 
houses I arrange. Those who take to the idea 
may talk all day about the beauty and conven- 
iences of the cooking department — the handy 
pantry shelves, the screens for pots and pans, 
the shining lids, the glistening cups, the cre- 
tonne covered boxes and bins, the geranium 
dying on the window sill, the cushioned rocker 
for a moment's rest, the magazine for a sec- 
ond's thought, but I'd step gladly out of my 
cook apron anytime, vacate the sacred pre- 
cinct, and run over to the library to read that 
same magazine. I never had a cook but once 
in life, and then I was so sorry for her that I 
did all the work myself, while she sat on the 
front porch, clothed royally in the belief that 
she owned the entire place. I wouldn't have 
minded that so much if only she had consented 
to pay the taxes. I am a pretty fair cook, 
though, when I want to be, but the trouble is 
I've never yet wanted to be. Aubrey has been 
across the great ocean once, and all over the 
rest of the world several times, and he says 
never anywhere has he found such delicious 
cornbread as I make here at home, and he re- 
Page Twenty-six — 



fuses to eat the stuff offered him elsewhere. 
I can turn out other delectable feats also — 
the lightest biscuit, the finest coffee, the most 
famous teacakes — but I'll have to admit it is 
altogether accidental, for I never measure any- 
thing that goes into them, and am thinking 
of something else all the time. And the fact 
remains, if I am consulted about my next 
stage of existence, and find I've got to come 
back to this world and be a woman-cook, I 
shall elect to sleep over another cycle of years, 
and take the chances of returning as a man. 
From a rather close observation I am inclined 
to think a man has excellent reasons for being 
glad he is not a woman. He has so many ad- 
vantages over a poor little custom bound 
woman in her hobbled skirt, high heeled shoes, 
and ten-acre hat. He does not have to stop to 
change his clothes when he goes, down town 
on business ; he has pockets in which to placo 
his hands when he can't think what else to clo 
with them; he can swagger around, give voice 
to his opinion (if he has any), act umpire at a 
baseball game, smoke fragrant cigars (unless 
he happens to be a Methodist preacher), and 
barring the fact that he is forced to pay poll 
tax, ought to know how to vote, and must 
sometime try to fill office, it seems to me he 
has rather a fine time of it. But life is not de- 
void of interest, nevertheless, and I've discov- 
ered many ways of returning thanks beside 
that of making feasts, stuffing on things mate- 
rial, and suffering from headache afterward. 
And on this golden November day I jellied the 
cranberries early, placed the turkey on its 
knees to roast in the oven (in life it was known 
as a chicken), added a little pepper, salt, a bit 
of sage, a pound or two of butter, and leavmg 
things to take care of themselves I went out on 
the south porch, sat down on the step in the 
mellow glow of the sunshine, let the red and 
yellow leaves drift softly down upon my red 
and yellow head, and was sincerely, and most 
wonderfully thankful for something— I didn't 
know exactly what. I never spoil thmgs 
spiritual, or temporal, by seeking to analvze 
their make-up, and that's why I get satisfac- 

— Page Twenty-seven 



tion out of everything, from a case of canned 
goods on up to a smiling "good morning." 

There are three blessings the human heart 
is heir to that we've got to take on trust and 
w^ithout question — love, happiness, and reli- 
gion though the three are very likely to be 
one. Admit them to the head, and subject 
them to the cold, calm light of logic, and they 
vanish as the mists before the sun. I know, 
for I've had them all — or thought I had — many 
and many a time. And among the ten thou- 
sand other things I have to be thankful for is 
the well known fact that I am not wise enough, 
and do not want to be wise enough, to analyze 
anything. If I get a pound of butter I con- 
sider it a pound of butter, and never wonder 
if there is coloring matter in it; if I buy a bit 
of meat (which I never do, because I can't af- 
ford it), I make no investigation, and smell no 
formaldahyde ; if I am happy I am just all 
happy, and happy enough to want others to be 
happy also ; if love be given me I plant it in 
the heart soil, give it great tenderness, all 
faith and loyalty, and laugh to see it blossom. 
If I get religion, or religion gets me, I accept 
it without a question, attempt no explanatini, 
offer no criticism, and flood all souls w'th its 
sunlight. And desiring out of the fullness of 
my own blessings to do something for some- 
body on this, and all other days of the year, 
and not knowing exactly how to go about it, 
and rather shy on the means of accomplish- 
ment, I am glad and thankful be^^ond measure 
that : 

"Just being happy helps other souls along. 
Whose burdens may be heavy while they're 

not strong; 
And your own skies will lighten 
If other skies you brighten 
By just being happy, with a heart full of 

song." 



Page Twenty-eight — 



Under the mistlsto3 

There is a big, beautiful bunch of mistle- 
toe growing naturally on a tree over our front 
gate, and though I have lingered there early, 
often, and expectantly, on warm moonlit sum- 
mer evenings, nobody ever took advantage of 
the fact that I know of. But always about the 
first of December, when I rush in and out of 
that gate at an unlawful, automobile speed, the 
soft, sweet kiss of the spirit of Christmas de- 
scends upon me. soul and body, my heart 
grows light, my head grows lighter, my purse 
grows lightest of all, and I cannot sleep at 
night for wondering what upon earth dear old 
Santa Claus is goi'ng to bring me this time. 
He has already brought me everything I 
wanted— last year, the year before that,_and all 
the vears preceeding — also many things I 
didn't know I wanted until the gay and fes- 
tive little packages arrived, and than, just as 
soon as the charming gift was revealed to my 
yight — anything, anything, from a tin toy whis- 
tle on up'^to a ten thousand dollar ring, vdth 
a green diamond set in it— I shed great tears 
ct unutterable joy, because I knew away down 
in the depths of my own soul this was the one 
thing more I had been longing for from the 
foundation of the world. Every year I think 
I will be calmer the next time, a little more 
dignified perhaps, and wise in the use of sound 
iudgment, but every year I am a bit worse, or 
better, than before, and I am most humbly 
thankful that it doesn't take sense, dignity 
and sound judgment to make one happy— if i~ 
did, where would I be? Hail blessed season 
of the year, the time of love, the time of joy. 
the time of "Peace on earth," whether we have 
it or not; the time of "Good will to men, 
women and children— especially the women 
and children. It is a blessing within itself that 
I am one of the women and children. For 

- — Page Twenty-nine 



weeks and weeks in advance of the happy day 
I go tip-toeing about this house of mine, rust- 
ling around in hidden corners, a mysteriDUS 
look upon my face, a knowing squint in my 
eyes, a hushed expectancy in every move I 
make, and safely stowed away behind desks, 
doors, chairs, under the beds, in closets and 
drawers, are dozens of beautiful bundles that 
represent more thought, joy and anticipation 
than the mind of man ever dreamed of, but 
a woman knows all about it, A man's idea 
of a present means a box of candy, or a gener- 
ous check on the bank, but a woman loves to 
spend days and days selecting slippers for her 
brother, fancy aprons for her sisters, pictures 
for her friends, little ribbon-wrapped things 
for her lover, and lace curtains, art squares, 
hand-painted china, silverware and sewing 
machines for her husband. A dozen times a 
day I spread out the charming selections I've 
made for my dear five thousand friends, in- 
spect, label and decorate them with gay lit- 
tle bells, pictures, holly-berries and ribbons, 
and then I tie them all up securely in boxes 
and bundles, ready for delivery by hand, mail 
or express. The next day I untie them hilari- 
ously, just for the dear delight of seeing if 
they are all there; go through the same per- 
formance again perhaps later, and maybe once 
more, even after that, and at last when they 
have gone their several ways to those destined 
to receive them, I would feel a bit lost and 
lonely, only the great day of returns looms 
near, and its magnificent possibilities are ex- 
hilarating. In the dark hours of the night 
when I am sound asleep, listening, T can heat 
the rustle of Santa Claus' wing; the soot show- 
ers down from the chimney over-head, my 
hosiery is explored at the dawn of each day, 
the house is left open so that anybody can get 
in, I run out to greet every man, woman and 
child with a mysterious bundle under their 
arms, meet the postman half way down the 
street, go perfectly wild at sight of the ex- 
press wagon drawn up under the mistletoe at 
the gate, and wren the rug peddler comes 
along with his red and green goods trailing 

Page Thirty — 



down to the ground, I fall all over myself and 
the stair railing lest he be "an angel nnaware," 
and I miss something by letting him pass i.i}'- on 
tlie other side. No chances will I lose, no 
golden opportunity will I miss, no stranger 
within my gate will I slight, no wayfarer will I 
pass, for that there is a really-truly, grand and 
gracious old Santa Claus roaming about this 
beautiful world, ready and willing to fill with 
happiness every heart open to receive him, is 
a joyful belief never outgrown by this trusting 
soul of mine. And blessed is the soul that 
trusteth, for it wouldn't know disappointment 
if encountered in the middle of the highway. 



— Page Thirty-one 



IPinter IDonders 

January sailed into my bit of a world on the 
soft sweet breath of a summer day, tinted and 
mellowed by the glow of a golden sun, and I 
couldn't do a thing on earth but wander about 
the lawn, sniff at the ambient air, dream hap- 
pily on the steps of the porch, swing idly on 
the bars of the gate, or meander around help- 
ing the crippled hen to build a nest under the 
honeysuckle vines. She could have had no 
very serious intentions, however, for no sooner 
did I wander away from the nest than she 
hopped off without even a cackle, and began 
to scratch in the grass for a little fat worm. 
But when the tide turned, the clouds hung low, 
the wind sighed among the trees, the sun went 
out of sight for days, and faint flurries of snow 
drifted across the hills, I forsook all out-doors 
snuggled down by a bright grate fire, and in 
a valient effort "to forget that my birthday 
comes in this month I plunged into those fa- 
vorite old scientific studies of mine — age worn 
problems of which I never tire — "The Seven 
Wonders of the World," "The Mystery of the 
Saharah Desert," the eternal question of "Who 
Struck Billy Patterson," the great problem of 
"Ann's Age" (or any other woman's age), and 
the famous "Riddle of the Egyptian Sphinx." 
I've been working at them all my life, and I've 
never solved one of them yet. I should be 
sadly out of something to do if I did, and im- 
measurably surprised. But those who know 
me well — if any such there be — declare I never 
gave up a problem, or anything else, I set my 
head to in all the days of my life. I can see no 
good reason for doing such a thing. What is 
the use of setting your head to anything if you 
are going to weaken and drop off, like a green 
little peach the frost has been playing with? 
If I had given away before every frost that 
nipped at me in life I should long since have 

Pace Thirty-two — - 



been numbered with the things that might 
have been, but were not. 

I believe if you secure an idea and hold 
on to it long enough, fulfillment is sure to 
come, and I cling on tenaciously to the few I 
get until they must materialize in one form, or 
another — generally another. And never in the 
least have I weakened on the Egyptian Sphinx, 
and early in life I made up what I call my mind 
to go on staying on earth until the mystery 
of the thing was solved. I had expected it to 
last as long as I did, however, and was there- 
fore somewhat startled a few days ago when I 
picked up a newspaper and saw the headline 
staring me in the face: "Solved at last — the 
Riddle of the Sphinx!" I almost fainted, my 
blood ran chill, mine eyes "bugged out," I tried 
not to read further, but of course I did. The 
more I read, however, the less I knew, and as 
the tension relaxed, and my pulse became nor- 
mal again, I found myself all tangled up in the 
following information: some learned Professor 
of something was sent out by a Boston Uni- 
versity on an expedition to Egypt, and as he 
had to make a decent stagger at earning his 
salary from the Museum of Fine Arts, he came 
back and announced that the Diorite statue of 
Crephrene is now in the Cairo Museum, that 
Chephrene lorded it over Egypt about 2850 B. 
C, was the builder of the pyramid that bears 
his name, and the aforesaid learned Professor 
discovered, or thought he discovered, what 
he considered, or imagined he considered, a 
most remarkable likeness between the statue 
and the sphinx; and that therefore now be it 
resolved, that as the one was intended for the 
other, and the other intended for the one, the 
great riddle of the ages is solved for all time 
to come! But he didn't give an atom of proof 
thereof, just expected us to take his Boston 
word for it, and so little faith have I in the 
so-called solution, and so little trust in the high 
toned Boston information, that I go on peg- 
ging away at the problems as though nothing 
whatever had happened? Even if the fancied 
resemblance should be proven to exist I can- 
not see that it elucidates anything. Somehow, 

• — Page Thirty-three 



sometime, somewhere, I have fallen heir to the 
idea, received the impression, caught on to the 
suggestion that the great riddle of the Sphinx 
lay hidden fathoms deep in the expression o£ 
the stony eyes, with their strange, still, far- 
away, eternally brooding look into the very 
heart of the mysterious desert, and when in the 
course of time, tide, and sheer tenacity, I shall 
attain to the hypnotic power of throwing my 
subconscious soul into the great stone-still 
brain, reading those petrified thoughts, gazing 
out through mystical eyes, then — and not until 
the Sphinx knew, understand the awful, unut- 
terable secret of it all, and electrify the world 
of mankind several volts more than the Boston 
Professor did. For when I secured the key to 
the mystery it will cease to be a mystery; 
nothing but a Sphinx could keep a secret all 
these ages of time ! But for the present I shall 
go meandering serenely on my way, perusing 
my studies as of old, resting where the occa- 
sion requires, playing when the nature of the 
<:ase permits, looking after the antics of the 
crippled hen, nailing up the palings on the 
fence, patching the leak in the veranda roof, 
figuring on a new coat of paint for the house, 
pnd all the time, softly, sweetly, happily, hope- 
fully, I am wondering in the depths of my own 
soul if anybody at all is going to surprise me 
with a birthday gift! 



Page Thirty-four— 



I 



/ 




